Taking Out the Trash
by phantomphan2000
Summary: Merle pictures himself as a garbage man, but not everyone else does. 3x15, AU
1. Priceless

**SPOILERS FOR 3x15**

**A/N****: Pretty sure I'm crazy for writing Merle/Michonne. (Would their mash-up name be Meronne?) **

**Disclaimer****: **_**If**_** I owned TWD (which I don't), then, being a great believer of second chances and redemption, I probably would've spared you-know-who. **

**Priceless**

"You know, we can go back."

She's right. They can. He can turn the wheel and hightail it back to the prison, back to Rick and the others, arm himself to the teeth, lie in wait for the Governor and his men to raid the place until there's nothing left but walkers.

Or he can just keep driving.

Merle shakes his head, fights and fails to prevent a smile from spreading across his worn face. Simplicity flew out the window when the world when to shit and got flushed down the toilet. Going back wouldn't solve anything; it would just mean a lot of diggin'. "Ain't happenin'."

"Both of us," she continues, ignoring him. "We can just go back."

He shakes his head again. Several times. Because he knows the truth, because she can and he knows what that means for him. "I can't go back, don't you understand that? I _can't_." He tries so damn hard to tune her out, and if he hadn't been driving, he would've walked away and continued taking out the trash without paying her any mind.

A heartbeat of dead quiet. "Why?"

The car rolls to a stop, a frustrated sigh passing Merle's lips. He throws it in park but keeps the engine running, breathes deep, fighting the urge to hit something, but his heart's not in it anyway. She's melted him down to the man he never had the chance to be: a good man. A man who does the right thing. She's gotten closer to him in mere hours than he ever let Daryl get his entire life. There hadn't been any heart-to-heart talks, any times he'd waved his true colors in front of his brother. He'd covered them up before the world could see and became a garbage man instead.

And now Michonne knew.

He leans over and cuts the wire binding her wrists. Michonne looks down at her free hands like she can't believe his actions, but when she meets his dead serious gaze again, it almost makes her beg him. And she never begs. Anyone. For anything. But she can see it written all over his face and wonders if he'll really muster the strength to let her go.

"You go back with him, get ready for what's next." He invades her space to open the passenger door for her, but Michonne isn't bothered by it, too busy watching him like a hawk, the colors flashing across his face. "I got somethin' I gotta do on my own." He nods, confirming her freedom to go.

She climbs out of the car but can't bring herself to step away from the door. And of course he hands her the sword back, words he can never say aloud put into the simple movement. All the things he ran out of time to tell her. All the answers she would've pried for before he delivered her to the Governor. He settles back in the driver's seat, looking anywhere but at her. What had she ever done for him to go throwing his life around as if it meant nothing? He couldn't really be considering going after the Governor on his own, could he?

Merle hears her boots on the pavement as she backs up and slams the creaky door. At least she has the sense to let him go do what he does best.

Just as he shifts to drive, another piercing sound catches his attention. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees Michonne has migrated to the back of the car, sword drawn. He's pretty sure his mouth drops.

In a rush of air, the back tire deflates.


	2. Weak Spot

**A/N: Got some really positive feedback for the first chapter, and I love Merle, so here's chapter 2!**

**Weak Spot**

"What in the _hell_ do you think yer doin'?"

Michonne yanks the sword from the useless tire and directs it at an advancing Merle, who halts instantly, the tip of the blade hovering just inches from his jugular. He eyes the weapon distrustfully, a flash of fear crossing his features, betraying the smile that soon follows. He takes a voluntary step back and bares both palms mockingly, as if to say: "Don't shoot." If the earth wasn't crawling with walkers and if she didn't have to fight for her life on a daily basis, she'd mock him right back. But he lacks control. More of the "act now, think later" type, he'll charge first instead of targeting a weak spot.

Which is exactly what she does.

"Saving your life," Michonne practically spits at him, as if the words were originally meant to be an insult.

Merle glares incredulously at her for a moment, then busts out laughing. "Oh, sweetheart, you don't know a _thing_ about savin' lives, do you?" he asks with a devilish smirk, running a thumb along the sharp end of the sword's deadly blade to unnerve her. "One, I ain't no bad guy. And two, only Merle can kill Merle."

The sword whips around to rest against Merle's wrist, implying Michonne could rob him the use of his left hand if she felt the need. "I wouldn't bet on that."

His smile only widens, much to her dismay. _What a smug bastard. _Still, Michonne lowers her Katana, knowing she'll let him walk. Because that is her weak spot, doing the right thing. Even for a guy like Merle Dixon. And because he'd done the same thing for her—or, well, _would've_. If she had let him. She'll let him walk, sure enough, but he won't go free.

The first time, she jabs at him with the weapon, but he jumps back, somehow having expected the attack. The second time, she barely pokes him. The third time, he catches the blade with his bare hand. Michonne frowns when he pulls away just as quickly, a low hiss reaching her ears. A line of red appears in his open palm. Blood begins to pour freely from his fresh wound, dripping onto the road beneath their feet, and Michonne can only curse silently at his rashness. She steps forward to determine the severity of the cut, to openly tell him how stupid he is, when a twig snaps somewhere behind Merle, a lone walker emerging from the cover of the trees. Michonne moves past Merle and makes a bloody mess of the creature in seconds. When she glances back, Merle has rammed the blade serving as his right hand through the head of a second walker.

And then the forest comes alive with the moans of the undead.

"Dammit, Merle," Michonne mutters, watching at least a dozen walkers approaching them from different directions, Katana feeling too loose in her hand.

Merle dashes to the car to retrieve the assault rifle, easily picking off the nearest threats. "Go!" he shouts at her.

Michonne decapitates two walkers with a single swing of her sword. "Are you_ crazy_?" she shouts back. The undead relentlessly stumble towards them, but she's already cleared a path. Michonne grabs the back of his shirt and _pulls_, dragging Merle fast and far enough to keep them both safe from hungry monsters. Merle naturally struggles against her the whole way.

"What the hell—?" he growls upon regaining his footing.

She lets go.

Expectedly, he spins, aims. "Don't you _ever—_"

"You can thank me later," she says, cutting him off, brushing the gun aside as if it were only a fly. Michonne spots more walkers amongst the trees and shifts her gaze back to Merle. "Right now, I need you to run and shoot."

And she takes off without waiting for his answer.


	3. Sorry, Not Sorry

**A/N: Thanks for all the continued support. I hope this chapter was worth the wait.**

**Sorry, Not Sorry**

"Ready for Round Three?"

Michonne can hear the smile in his voice, but she refuses to slow enough for him to catch up. Because that would mean having to look at him, engage in pointless conversation. Twice they've been swarmed by a herd, the third time seeing one, so yeah, it's nothing to be thrilled about. By some miracle, they haven't died.

Yet.

So she just says, "Shut up, Merle," and tries to focus on putting on foot in front of the other.

He chuckles softly behind her.

Dragging Merle back to the prison hadn't been her plan, but leaving him hadn't really been an option. Would she have been able to live with herself if she had, knowing he planned to go on a suicide mission to kill the Governor? Her jaw clenches without her permission. _No._ Merle might've stood a chance against the man who had further corrupted him, but she'd never asked him to, the group had never asked him to. Michonne tells herself she saved him because he would have saved her, that they need his skills to protect and keep the prison from the Governor's influence. She locks the gratitude and relief away so he won't see.

She hears him sigh, a little closer now. "Why'd you do it?"

Of course he wants to know, she thinks, hands curling into tight fists at her sides. Of course she can't—and won't—tell him. "I don't hear you bellyachin'," she points out, voice rigid, cold—a poor line of defense.

Michonne expects the hand that lands on her shoulder.

She spins, Katana free to decapitate him in a second, making it clear contact isn't welcome. "Whoa, whoa," Merle says, arms instantly above his head. Michonne watches him carefully lower the rifle to the ground, holding her own. "Let's just . . . take it easy for a minute, girl. Ain't nobody gotta get hurt." Her eyes find the blood-soaked cloth wrapped tightly around his hand, a warm pang of guilt assaulting the block of ice in her chest. The sword falls to hang loosely next to her leg. "You know, for being on the outside, you don't seem to have too many connections. You don't say much," Merle adds, attempting to rouse a reaction.

Michonne glares daggers at him. "Good thing, since I saved your sorry white ass."

Merle steps forward, invading her personal space, but she resists the urge to retreat. She hopes he won't make a habit of it. "I didn't—" he starts, falters. He looks away, gaze focusing on something in the distance, starts again. "I didn't have to let you go."

It's a whispered apology for being an ass, a compliment for doing not necessarily the right thing, but the hard thing, admiration for having the guts to stand up to him, a threat to keep her hostage. All wrapped into one. "I had no idea," Michonne replies, sarcasm heavily staining the words. She sheathes her Katana and turns her back on Merle Dixon.

He catches up, blocks her path with the outstretched rifle. "You never answered—"

"I know," she interrupts, cutting him off sharply. Michonne pushes past the weak barrier, home—or the closest thing she's ever had to one—in sight, a familiar crossbow-wielding shape rushing towards them from the prison gates. "I'll die first."


	4. Late Bloomer

**A/N: This is where things _really_ start to get interesting.**

**Disclaimer: It's depressing that I don't own any of these amazing characters.**

* * *

**Late Bloomer**

"Where the hell have you two been?"

Daryl is looking at Merle, expecting an immediate answer from his older brother, and by the way he's staring at him, Michonne knows he's figured out Merle's plan to get the job done. Confusion seems to be floating around in there too somewhere, probably because Daryl's eyes keep flicking to Michonne as if he can't believe she's not dead, hands fused to the crossbow he rarely puts down. And he wants answers, proof that Merle knocked her unconscious and intended to deliver her to the Governor, proof of his suspicions. Rick's suspicions. If Daryl knows, Rick must too.

Should she tell them the truth? Or defend Merle for saving her life? Of course, she wouldn't have needed saving if he hadn't taken her in the first place. . . .

"Scouting ahead," Michonne replies, just as Merle says, "Looking for the Governor."

She resists the urge to roll her eyes because while she'd outright lied, at least it made _sense_. Merle hadn't lied—he eventually would've presented her to the one-eyed dictator of Woodbury with a smile—but it would be tricky making their two stories work. Though not exactly impossible.

Michonne takes a step forward, successfully gaining Daryl's full attention. "We decided it would be best to pair up and scout the area for potential threats from the Governor. There's nothing yet, but Merle managed to find some places for traps," she reports. No chance in hell was he getting away without having to work for it. So Merle just smiles and assures Daryl he'll take care of it.

After he talks to Rick.

Which, come to think of it, she also needs to do.

* * *

_Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap—_

"Officer Friendly's waitin' for ya, sweetheart."

Michonne glances up to see a wide grin spread across the devilish face of Merle Dixon. She hates the way his eyes smile down at her like he knows her deepest, darkest secrets. As if she knows his. Like they're a _team_. It disgusts her. Just because she'd saved his life didn't mean he'd automatically gained an ally. Maybe he reads the opposite of this truth in her eyes, extending a hand to help her up. She simply stares, confused, conflicted. Terrified of what excepting Merle's help would mean. Michonne pushes herself to her feet without his aid. "We'll talk outside," is all she can say in an even tone, careful not to meet his gaze. She brushes past him to find Rick, hoping she can back up whatever bullshit story Merle concocted.

She finds him, head in his hands, sitting on a stool in one of the cells on the upper floor. Michonne notices how worn he appears on the outside, how dead he must be inside. Rick almost sold her out for a chance to save his family. And she can't blame him. How can she? He'd been faced with hard decisions every day since the dead began to roam the planet. She knew the choice hadn't been an easy one to make from the start.

"I'm sorry, Michonne," he mumbles to his palms. Rick's hands fall from his face, forcing himself to look at her. "I made the wrong call."

"I don't blame you, Rick. You did what you had to do."

"But I had a _choice_," he insists.

Michonne folds her arms and smiles sadly, leaning against the doorframe. "You had a family to protect. And it doesn't matter, anyway. Whatever Merle told you is a lie. We went looking for the Governor, scouting ahead so we could be ready."

Rick's jaw clenches. "He told me you—" He stops, unsure if he should reveal what the eldest Dixon had decided to share with him. Rick swallows hard once. "He told me you saved his life out there when he would have left you behind. Carl told me you were one of us, and this only proves that. But I need to know you're _with_ us, Michonne. We need numbers."

She nods once. "Yeah," Michonne replies truthfully. "I'm with you."


	5. Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda

**A/N:** **Thanks for all the favorites, follows, reviews, and alerts! I was surprised to see a good mix of these in my inbox after posting the last chapter. I'm having _waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay_ too much fun writing this for you guys!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything remotely related to this show, but I can dream... right?**

* * *

_"I wear my heart upon my sleeve, like a big deal" — (Feel So Close by Calvin Harris)_

**Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda**

Things were _not_ going according to plan.

Michonne throws open the door, scanning the prison yard for Merle. She should kill him for getting her into this mess. For forcing her to lie to Rick to keep his ass out of the crossfire. He may have lied by weaving in some form of truth, but did he really expect her to just take whatever he dished out? He'd already gotten away with trying to hand her over to the Governor, at least as far as she could tell from talking to Rick. The guilt had begun to gnaw at what was left of his sanity, and if it continued to decay, Rick would be unfit to lead them. And the Governor would waltz in and take over.

And kill them all.

So whether anyone liked it or not—including herself—Merle would be hanging around the prison to help them preserve it. Michonne hadn't predicted his return to go so smoothly, but Daryl's curiosity would surely cause a hiccup in the brothers' weakened relationship. Because he wanted to know what really happened. Because he knew his brother enough to see through Merle's façade.

Sure enough, Michonne spots the Dixon brothers as she descends the concrete steps leading from C Block, talking low and serious by the main gate that divides the living from the dead, the group from the walkers. They continue to argue back and forth until Merle finally loses it and takes his anger out on a walker by shoving his bayonet arm through the gate, dark, sticky blood coating the blade when he pulls it back, the zombified corpse hitting the ground with a wet _thud_. Michonne freezes, immobilized by the words that begin to flow from him like a waterfall of truth.

"Don't you get it? I did this for you," Merle nearly yells, waving his hand to emphasize the prison. "All of it. I would've taken her to the Governor, I would've given my left hand, risked my life to kill him _myself._ I would've done a thousand other things to keep you alive because you're my baby brother." He spreads his arms wide. "I'm tired of being the bad guy here, man. Takin' out the trash, doin' the dirty work. If you want to stay here, that's fine, I get it. I'll stay and try to kill that bastard when he comes, but when it's all over, I'm gone."

Daryl slowly processes that, frowns. "Why? I never asked—"

"Nobody did. But I'd rather see me dead than you."

Michonne thinks that's the closest he'll probably ever get to telling Daryl he cares about him.

Daryl nods. "All right," he says. "I'll talk it over with Rick, see what we can do." He starts to turn away, but stops to add what sounds like, "Thanks, by the way."

"Don't thank me," Merle insists with a smile. "You might regret it later." And his gaze shifts directly to Michonne.

Cursing silently to herself, she takes the opportunity to shut the door behind her loud enough that Daryl turns at the sound, and taking one last look back at his brother, Daryl takes the stairs, passing Michonne with the crossbow slung over his shoulder. He gives her a small smile, and she returns it with a ghost of one. It's finally his turn to talk to Rick. Michonne wonders as he disappears inside if Rick will be stable enough to survive that talk.

Merle meets her at the end of the stairs. "A little birdie told me you wanted to chat with your ol' pal Merle. That right?"

His smugness really pisses her off sometimes. "What did you tell Rick?"

"The truth," he replies, blocking her path so that she has nowhere to go but back up the stairs. Merle puts a foot on the first step and slowly starts to climb, Michonne matching each of his steps with one of her own, backing up as he advances. "I figured, hey, we'll probably all be dead come tomorrow, so why not? Knew he'd believe me over you, anyhow." Michonne backs into the fence surrounding the steps, cornered by Merle. His bayonet comes to rest on the chain-link fence, right arm trapping her effectively as he leans forward slightly, light eyes boring into her dark ones. "Seems like I'm still the bad guy around here, don't it? Even after I let you go and let you drag me back to this hellhole."

Michonne swallows. "You didn't have to come back. You could've gone off on your own."

Merle shakes his head, a sad smile forming on his face. "I ain't goin' anywhere without my brother."

"Imagine that."

Merle cocks an eyebrow. "I never told you I was sorry, did I?"

"Kinda." She tries to ignore the warm breath that hits the side of her face and throat, tries to move as far from him as possible, but Merle moves when she does, reading the movements on her face a second before she makes them.

"Well," he says, shrugging, "I am."

Michonne's jaw clenches so tight she thinks her teeth might break.

"You know what else?" Merle continues, ignoring her glare. "I got to thinkin' and realized something. You coulda killed me anytime out there, left me to the biters. But you didn't. And that can only mean one thing, girl."

He doesn't go on, deliberately pausing so she can interject with an irritable, "_What_?"

Merle smiles as wide as she's ever seen, leaning even closer, his left and only hand latching onto the chain-link fence on her other side, officially and completely boxing her in. Any attempt at escape would be futile. Michonne turns her head away slightly, debating her next move.

"You like me."


	6. Sitting Ducks

**SPOILERS FOR 3x15... in case you didn't know by now...**

* * *

**Sitting Ducks**

Michonne wants to scoff and laugh and brush him off and pretend the last five minutes never happened. She wants to push him away and tell him to _stay_ away. She wants to threaten him with her Katana, if only to make him think twice. She wants to tell him he's stupid for thinking she could actually enjoy his company. She wants to ask him to take down the Governor with her. She wants to keep him company because no one but Daryl would willingly. She wants to defend him, stand up for him. She wants to lean forward and hug the shit out of him.

But she doesn't.

Ducking under his bayonet arm turns out to be easier than she thought. Michonne does her best to offer him a genuine smile, but it's hard when he just stares at her as if she's the only one who can help him, as if he'll lose all the ground he's gained by coming back if she walks away now. "You're lucky they don't lock you up," she says, but her heart's not in it, and the words sound wrong, full of an emotion she refuses to identify.

Merle nods and looks down at his feet. "Suppose you're right," he agrees softly, leaning against the fence with his good arm. He waits until she meets his gaze again before adding, "You know he'll come for us first, right?"

"Yeah," Michonne replies after a minute. "Yeah, I know." A couple hours—maybe a day—is all they have left.

He shifts his weight back to his legs, arm falling to his side as he walks toward her, testing how close he can get with slow steps before she starts to back away. A hand flies to the hilt of her sword instinctively but can't seem to find the strength to unsheathe it. He gets close, but not too close. "We could end it, just you and me, before it even starts. Take him out. Save the group. Save the prison. Save the day."

She frowns. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

The seriousness of her question doesn't throw him off guard like it should, his voice turning pointed, heated. "I'm trying to do what's best for my baby brother."

"Then don't go after him," Michonne counters. "Let him do all the work for us, let him waltz right in. We'll be ready when he does."

"We'll be _sitting ducks_."

She shrugs. "Better than being _dead_ ducks."

In seconds, Merle breaks, a smile spreading across his face before he can stop it. And he _laughs_. Laughs so hard he nearly doubles over, but she'd be lying if she said she hated the sound. Michonne fights, but he's infected with laughter, and there's no taking back, no regrets. Not now, not anymore. Because she's run out of time to build more walls. Because their time is almost up. So she laughs at him, with him. Because she can. Until they can't—sides burning, eyes watering. He slings his left arm around her shoulders, and she lets him. Doesn't flinch or pull back or break his arm. Just walks the short distance to the prison door right beside him without a care in the world.

He chuckles, barely loud enough for her to hear. "I'm really gonna miss you, girl."


	7. This Is War

**A/N: This chapter was hard to write for some reason, but I hope you guys enjoy it!**

* * *

_"A warning to the people,_

_the good and the evil,_

_this is war."_

(30 Seconds to Mars, This Is War)

* * *

**This Is War**

"We can stay and fight, or we can go," Rick says.

No one answers.

Michonne glances around at members of the group, fighting the urge to bust out laughing again. None of them seem to know what to do with themselves. Why? Because Rick still has a gun in his hands even though he'd proclaimed not to be their Governor? No, they don't fear him, she realizes. They _pity_ him, the weight upon his shoulders. She can see it hidden behind the determined expression mirrored on each survivor's face. They know Rick will be the last to die, even Hershel and Daryl, who are part of the inner circle, know it. The Governor will watch him burn from the inside out, forcing Rick to witness the group die, one by one. Merle could read anyone's thoughts just by looking at them, it seemed, having previously relayed all this information to her. Still, Michonne is momentarily surprised to discover the same resolve in Merle's features before she remembers he's not leaving, not without Daryl, not until they finish off the Governor or die trying. Merle is stuck in prison by _choice_. As he meets her gaze, she wonders what happened to him, why he suddenly morphed into a moral version of Merle Dixon she never even knew existed—_could_ exist. She hadn't believed he could hurt and genuinely laugh and just _feel__ human _until he'd kidnapped her.

A sudden wave of emotion flows through the assembled circle, and on instinct, Daryl makes the first move by stepping boldly into the center. "I'm in." Merle, followed shortly by Michonne and Hershel, stand next to him. The rest of the group joins until everyone is standing in front of Rick. The simple movement shocks their leader, eyebrows raising as he finally understands what it means.

Merle takes advantage of the moment. "We fight," he declares, and when Rick can only stare, openmouthed and confused at Merle like he just spoke Spanish, Merle moves forward again to extend his left hand. It's his way of wordlessly forgiving Rick for what happened back on the rooftop in Atlanta, for doing what he had to for the sake of preserving other lives, letting the past rest once and for all. Michonne recalls what she told him earlier about this being his chance to prove himself and hone his skills. To make himself useful, to be something other than a garbage man.

He always had the potential.

Merle smiles. "Put 'er there, Officer Friendly."

Understanding trickles down over Rick, washing away shock and a hint of distrust. He grabs Merle's hand and shakes it. "Thank you," Rick replies, grateful and relieved to finally have a right-minded Merle on his side.

A moment of awkward silence falls over them in which Daryl's brother can feel multiple pairs of eyes trained on his back, judging him, weighing his sincerity. He turns around to break it. "Well, what're y'all waitin' for, huh? We got work to do! This prison ain't gonna defend itself!"

* * *

Daryl and Merle set the traps well outside the prison gates, where the Governor and his men will roll through in their armored vehicles. Glenn and Maggie, though not very happy with Merle's reappearance, focus on loading weapons and finding protective gear to wear inside. Hershel and Carol go over the medical supplies in case someone acquires an injury during the fight. Beth and Carl watch over Judith while Rick makes a quick sweep of the prison with Michonne before sunset, using the scope on his rifle to keep an eye on the trees.

"We should've seen something by now," he mumbles quietly to Michonne as they make their way back to C Block. "We weren't there at noon."

"Doesn't mean he isn't comin'," she points out.

Rick doesn't have a response to that.

Back inside, Merle echoes her thoughts when Rick expresses his concern to the others. "Oh, he'll come, all right. Just not tonight. Or any night. Can't see the biters then, only hear 'em. Can't see _us_. Doesn't have the guts to parade through here in the dark when he don't know the layout," he assures, gesturing to their surroundings. "We'll be fine till morning, but I'll keep watch."

Daryl slings his crossbow over his shoulder. "I'll come with you."

Merle shakes his head. "Nah, we need you rested, ready to go come mornin'. Rick, too."

"Glenn and I will take second watch," Maggie volunteers, stepping out from one of the cells, Glenn right behind her.

Merle nods once. "Michonne and I'll wake you when it's time."

Rick hands his rifle over to Michonne before she can object. "Just in case," he says, low enough so only she can hear. "Be careful." She takes the weapon, weighing it in her hands. She's always preferred her Katana over firearms, but when it comes to distance, any gun with a scope wins, hands down.

Merle faces her, the bayonet catching in the moonlight shining in through one of the windows, glinting brightly enough to catch her eye. The rest of him is hidden in shadow, and she can barely see his outline when he asks, "You ready?"

Michonne takes a deep breath and releases it slowly through her nose.

"As I'll ever be."


	8. Red Light, Green Light

**A/N: This isn't the big confrontation chapter with the Governor (insert booooo's here), BUT it will be the chapter following this one. Trust me, you don't want to skip this one. By the end of the chapter, you'll either hate me or love me!**

* * *

_"Sitting alone here in my bed_  
_ I'm waiting for an answer I don't know that I'll get_  
_ I cannot stand to look in the mirror, I'm failing_  
_ I'm telling you these times are hard_  
_ But they will pass"_

(These Time by SafetySuit)

* * *

**Red Light, Green Light**

"You're leaving."

It's not a question, it's not an accusation. Her tone isn't filled with blame or pain or anger. Her voice doesn't crack or shoot up three octaves. It's a simple statement, a fact that hit Michonne the second they stepped outside. It's why he chose her instead of Daryl, why Rick gave her the rifle. Because he knew, because Merle told him, because she would be on her own out here once Merle did what he did best. She mentally curses Rick for being okay with this, for using Merle to set traps and then willingly cutting him loose. Daryl couldn't know or he'd be tagging along after his older brother to keep an eye on him. To keep him under the same roof.

Merle sighs heavily. "The offer still stands—"

"I'm not going anywhere," Michonne says firmly. She tries to keep the anger from seeping into her words, tries to keep her voice low. "What about Daryl? You're going to walk away, just like that? After everything you've done to help us?"

Merle shifts uncomfortably before her, his shoulders rolling forward once as if trying to brush the weight off his back. "I got to," he mumbles down at his feet.

"Oh, I get it," she starts furiously, rage boiling up from her gut hot and fast. "You're going after him_ because_ of Daryl. So screw the rest of us, right? Forget that maybe we need you here to fight and kick the Governor's ass when the time comes. You more than anyone should want to kill him. Maybe even more than me. And you'd rather take your chances out there alone than stay with the people who'll watch your back?"

His jaw clenches. "I fixed what I had to. My time is done here."

"He'll come after you."

"So you stop him."

"And if I don't?"

"Then Rick does."

"And when he can't?"

Merle moves so suddenly she isn't prepared, and she's forced back into the fence, his rifle discarded, forgotten on the ground, Rick's still draped over her shoulder. He gets in her face, anger and pain and seriousness painted in vibrant colors over his entire being for her to see. He's not playing around this time or patching things up. This time, he means business. "It won't matter," he nearly growls. "The Governor will be dead. I'll have slit his throat, torn out his heart and fed it to the walkers. I'll have ended this so no more blood is spilled but that bastard's. My baby brother will see that, and he'll come lookin' for me, but I'll be gone. It'll be over. I told him that. He knows it's comin'. _So it won't matter_."

"He's gonna kill himself trying to find you," she argues. "So it does. You want his blood on your hands?"

"Daryl can survive on his own," Merle hastily assures her with a twisted smile, not budging an inch, "but he won't find me."

"Why?"

"_Because_ I don't want him to," he admits exasperatedly. "He's got a good thing here, he doesn't need me to go fuck it up, all right? Is that what you wanted to hear, huh? _Huh_? Answer me!"

Michonne feels her anger slipping as his mounts. A few groaning walkers claw at the fence by the main gate blindly, attracted by their sharp tones. The rattling sound seems disjointed, a memory bleeding into the present, annoying background noise. Half of Merle's face is cast in darkness, the other illuminated by the light of the full moon. He doesn't appear to notice them. She wonders, hopes the Governor and his men aren't nearby, lurking somewhere just beyond the trees. "No," she grinds out. His eyes search hers for a long moment for answers she's not sure he'll find. Merle must get lost in them because he finally releases a frustrated breath and backs away to retrieve the assault rifle and carry on his merry way, leave her behind. A booted foot prevents him from picking up the weapon. "No one asked you to do this, Merle. You've earned your place here. No one's asking you to go."

He chuckles. "You don't get it, do you? Rick gave me the green light, and now I gotta follow through."

"Let somebody else take him down."

"There _is_ nobody else."

She throws up her hands. "There's me."

Merle smiles, stands. "Now,_ that's_ funny. You really think I'd let you just up and walk outta here? Go after the Governor? Slit his throat with your sword, right?" He laughs again. "You're _hilarious_, girl."

They're supposed to be keeping watch, scoping out the perimeter for anything other than walkers, but she can't find it in her to care. Merle's right about the Governor, but the one-eyed man is also unpredictable when he's desperate. He could charge out of the trees at any time, roll through in a armored truck, blow the place sky high. But she knows he won't. Anger flares white hot inside her again when she hears Merle laugh, and so she does the most unpredictable thing she can think of to get his attention.

She punches him.

He stumbles back in shock, palm pressed to his jaw. Merle stares incredulously at her. "What—?"

She shoves _him_ back against the fence, blocks _him_ in, gets in _his_ face. "I saved your ass when I didn't have to. You owe me. So I'm _asking_ you _not to go_."

"Why don't you just_ tell_ me, Michonne?" he shoots back wittily.

She pauses, surprised he actually used her name. "Because you're right," she eventually answers. "I like you."

For a moment, he doesn't say anything, and she's left standing there, feeling like a little kid with a crush. Because, yeah, she likes his company, but she doesn't_ love_ him. Most of the time, she can't even stand to be in the same room with him. She worries the meaning of her words will be misinterpreted, that Merle won't understand what she's really trying to say. He deserves to have a choice. To live or to die. He has to make that call, him and him alone, but he should know he _can._

His foot comes to land on the rifle, sending it skittering to the side, his eyes never leaving hers, even as he lifts Rick's gun from her shoulder and tosses that aside too. "You wouldn't have listened if I'd _told _you," she adds.

Merle's smug smile returns. "No."

And he closes the gap between them.


End file.
